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It starts with a WHOOSH like an unseasonal arctic wind. You grab that ratty cardigan that’s always within reach. You can’t wiggle into it quick enough. It’s eighty-five degrees, but you’re shivering. Your heart sinks, your smile turns upside down. You know what’s coming. O, the dread. Before your arm is in the second sleeve your body begins to turn into your own private rainforest. You are Jeff Goldblum in THE FLY. You tremble. And…it’s here! Ice turns to fire. Is it malaria? The tsunami of sweat starts at the top of your head. Gravity drags rivulets of perspiration through your scalp and down your forehead. Your face turns from a semi-life-like flesh-tone to CGI pink neon. Wetness drips down your face. Splat. That book you were reading looks like it fell it the toilet. Lucky you learned that waterproof mascara keeps you from looking like a cheap hooker after a sixteen-hour shift.

There’s a flash flood in your cleavage and puddles in your armpits. Is it dengue fever? Scarlet fever? Yellow fever? You don’t have a fever. You’re not dying. You’re not even sick. You’re having a hot flash. You rip tissues out of the box: one, two, three, four, five, six. Dab, dab, dab, blot, blot, blot; dab, blot dab, blot. You’re moist. You’re a mess. You blame it on the weather. On the halogen lights. On the broken thermostat. But it’s you that’s broken. YOU. And that flash is called a flash because it’s gone as fast as it came. Like a stealth graffiti artist it sneaks in, tags you with a gallon of sweat, then disappears. But it will be back. O, yes. It WILL be back.

You will have approximately fifteen to fifty more hot flashes in the next twenty-four hours and for the next fifteen years. You will donate your collection of gorgeous wool sweaters to GOODWILL. You will never wear wool again. And no turtlenecks until you’re at least seventy years old. Cheer up, Dearie. It could be worse: you could have 5,000 hot flashes a day for the next 1,000 years. I’m being silly. This hormone hell won’t last forever it will only seem like eternity.

I’m an adult female woman person. I have three children and pets and a job. I have a mortgage and pay taxes and still get my period every month along with the cable bill, electric bill, gas bill and phone bill. I have insurance for health, cars, property and my life. I know how to drive an SUV and use a computer. Now I’m crying for no reason! And I have pimples! I haven’t had a pimple since the 80s. And what the hell is that? A pine needle is sticking out of my chin. It’s… it’s… a hair! WTF????

Calm down. Take a breath. It’s not menopause. You’re only forty-three. It’s peri-menopause. Shut up. Just shut up! You’re not done. You can still get pregnant. It’s a fact. So what if your oldest child is leaving for college? Google, Google, research, research. You will take Black Cohosh. Done. Phew. Homeopathic is the way to go. No chemicals. Pharmaceuticals are poison. Relief is a bottle of Black Cohosh away. Sweats-Be-Gone! A month later, Black Cohosh: go fuck yourself. Black Cohosh is like a capsule full of nutmeg. Supplement scam. You’re Old Faithful. Why is it so humid? There’s zero humidity. It’s you. You cry at ATM machines. You yell at telemarketers. Your SPANX feel like a haz-mat suit. You walk-around with a fistful of Kleenex. Dabbing, always dabbing. You look crazy. You use that Flamenco fan you bought in Madrid. Ole. Fan, fan, fan. You’re getting carpal tunnel from fanning. You’re a peri-menopausal Willy Water Bug.

Tomatoes! You read an article that swears that fresh tomatoes stop hot flashes. Fat red tomatoes! Eat them. Eat a dozen a day. You hate tomatoes. And you’re flashing and growing a beard. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. What’s with the fucking hair on your chinny-chin-chin? And the zits? You’re using Clearasil again for the first time since tenth grade. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Weep, sweat, pluck, dab, blot, fan. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You are a greasy, sweaty, steamy mess. Your hair is no longer a ‘do. It no longer has a style. You pull it back, up and high in an industrial clamp – you’re ready for the next Category five hurricane that’s headed for your head. You wear cotton T-shirts under everything and wear nothing when you go to bed. You wonder if they still make dress shields. Your grandma used to use dress shields. SON-OF-A-BITCH MAKE IT STOP!

Every morning your sheets are damp. You haven’t peed in bed. You know this for a fact because you haven’t slept. You flashed the night away, naked. You’re exhausted. You’re cranky. You wish you’d been born a boy. You give-up coffee, red wine, Indian food. This Equatorial rollercoaster of blood, sweat, tears, whiskers and pimples is the cruelest hoax Mother Nature has ever played. When you cry, it’s like your eyeballs are having their own mini-sub-hot flashes.

The doctor! You have a doctor! God bless your fabulous, darling doctor. She is a genius. She went to medical school and became a doctor. She will fix this (minus the chin hairs; laser hair removal will fix that. And the pimples; a dermatologist will fix that).

Dr. Darling knows your misery. She has a chart full of misery with your name on it. She prescribes a little patch that looks like a tiny square of Scotch tape. Your insurance doesn’t cover it. Of course it doesn’t. You don’t care. It’s a cure! You’ll sell a kidney for a cure. It’s called The Vivelle Dot! How great is that? Even its name is adorable – it should be the fourth Power Puff Girl. Sorry horrible hormones, you nasty bastards. You let me down and I am replacing you with The Vivelle Dot.

Alas, still no wool sweaters, no turtlenecks (maybe when I’m seventy?), no silk shirts or scarves – it’s cotton, cotton, cotton my life is all about cotton. The touch, the feel – it’s the fabric of my life until this nightmare is over. The Vivelle Dot works! It’s a miracle! Thank you, darling doctor. Thank you, V.D. (that’s its nickname)!

It has been a year. I’m occasionally schvitzy and my hair, when I wear it down, feels like a Navajo blanket – but it’s great in the winter, I don’t need a hat. And it’s like wearing a pashmina when a room is a balmy 46 degrees. What a relief! No more unwanted facial hair (which seems redundant when you’re a woman because other than eyebrows isn’t all facial hair “unwanted?”). My skin is glowing and pimple (and for now, wrinkle) free.

These are happy days. My fabulous forties. I put the Flamenco fan away. It’s a souvenir, again, not a necessity. I won’t chance it and wear SPANX. Belly fat: come to Mama. Most of the time I sweat when it’s appropriate. On my terms. I glisten, instead of looking like a hairy, zitty, blubbering flood victim. And I could still, if I wanted to, get pregnant. I guess. It’s not too late. Besides, this is only peri-menopause. This is just the coming attraction, the teaser, the appetizer. I must prepare for the real deal; the main course. The full-length feature. Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman. Like all the time.

O My God. My children are 36, 38 and 40 and they’re still speaking to me. It’s a miracle. I used to dream that it would be like this, but how often do dreams come true?

Where did I go right? Being a parent got easier when I laughed more and demanded perfection less. Raising children is like crossing the street: Stop, Look and Listen. Parents get a do-over every day. Tomorrow is filled with chances to be more patient, more present, and more creative than you were today.

Our kids are our best teachers and our biggest fans. They want us to succeed. They don’t want loser parents. They need to feel like they’re in the hands of an expert. They’re rooting for us.

They don’t need to live in a big house or a fancy house but they deserve to live in a clean home. They need healthy food and decent clothes. You’ll never run out of toilet paper, paper, pencils, batteries and food. They have to go to museums, get exercise, make friends, read books and be loved by you, forever. You can give your kids too much stuff, too much candy, too many parties, presents and promises, but you can never give a child too much love.

“No” is the most important word in the English language. “No” is the parent secret handshake. A child needs to learn that “No” means “No.” If they don’t learn it when they’re little, they will grow-up and go to prison. “No.” Say it firmly, lovingly and once. Or say, “I don’t think so.” “Not-so-much.” “What’s Plan B?” “Not gonna happen.” “In your dreams.” “That’s a joke, right?” “Maybe next time.” “Who do you think I am? – Grandma?” The great thing is that after they grow-up you get to say “Yes” to everything.

Our children are not ours to keep. If you’re lucky like me – you still have a front row seat, after forty years, to watch them navigate the world, have professions and make a living and a life for themselves. And you can exhale because you did it! You kept them alive and thriving for all these years. You taught them how to eat with a fork, you potty trained them (eventually) and put them through school, and taught them how to drive and play the piano and draw and paint and do laundry and respect women and wear natural fibers and cook! You raised good men who are funny and smart and loving and kind and tall, who buy you presents and call to say “hi” and ask how you’re feeling and tell you about their day and crack you up.

There are a million books on parenting. There are thousands of experts. But there is no instruction manual on how to raise your children. Today, as a M.O.M. (Mom of Men) I continue to evolve. My sons are my family jewels. When I think I could not love them more, I do. And when I think I could not be more proud of them, I am.

Here are my Top 10 Parenting Tips.

1. You’re Their Mom, Not Their Friend

I wanted to be a mother. I never wanted to be friends with a baby. I had my own friends. What did we have in common besides DNA, a bunch of relatives and the same last name? There’s a difference between “friend” and “friendly” and the minute your child suspects that you need to be the cool, popular parent – you are Dead Mom Walking. They can smell your fear and will use it against you. Accept your authority. Embrace it. A family is a benign dictatorship. A self-sacrificing Madonna Martyr Mother inspires guilt, not independence. Children need to feel safe – in your uterus, in your car, in their lives. They need to know that you are their Safe Place; that they can count on you – no matter what. Act your age, dress your age, be authentic. Earn respect by respecting yourself and your children. You’re the grown-up. You’re driving the bus. You’re large and in charge.

2. Just Listen

Be an active listener. Listening is the most powerful skill in any relationship. My children taught me the difference between being a Sounding Board vs. a Suggestion Box. “Just listen.” It’s simple to say and hard to do. It’s difficult to resist the urge to give advice. Listen. Turn-off your freakin’ phone. Ten minutes of quality communication is better than an hour cluttered with interruptions. Give your child the gift of your full attention. You will teach him to communicate and problem-solve by allowing him to express himself. Nothing is more important than what your child is telling you. Texting, cellphones, e-mails, smoke signals, sky writing – nothing compares to focused listening and be heard is an act of Love.

3. You’re Their Role Super Model

Your actions speak louder than your words. How you act and what you do set an example for your kids. They are little human sponges. Like a baby chimp, your child will mimic you – good behavior and bad. Pick “good.” If you’re going to go to all the trouble to give them Life, why not give them one more gift: a happy parent. They will face enough stress – don’t add to it by making them worry about you. Children of manipulative, insecure, emotionally insatiable parents become mistrustful, neurotic adults. A mother who doesn’t love and take care herself can’t love or take care of her child. The way you treat yourself and other people is the model you show your children. Feed your family food as well as fun, culture, love, time and attention.

4. Calm Down

A calm, confident and happy mother has calm, confident and happy children. Excluding colic, exhaustion or a fever, cranky babies usually have nervous mothers. Kids are psychic. They have Babydar. They were anatomically connected to you for nine months, or in the case of mine

, 9 ½. Decades after the cord is cut, they remain connected to you, intuitively. We’ve all watched the powerless parent begging their terrible two-year-old to “Stop that this minute!” When you want your child to be still, be still. If you want your child to be a screamer, scream. Rational children have sane parents who know how to behave. 19th century writer, Josiah Gilbert Holland, said: “Calmness is the Cradle of Power.” Rock your baby’s cradle, serenely. Chill out. Be rational and reasonable. Children wouldn’t be children if they didn’t make a mess, spill, act-out, break stuff. I’ve used the Lamaze relaxation breathing technique more since they were born, than I did during labor and delivery. Give yourself a break. Relax.

5. Home Sweet (Smelling) Home

Create a warm, comfortable home. You are the (house)keeper of the castle. Make your home the happiest place on earth. Don’t be a slob and live like a pig. Your home is a metaphor. The way you take care of it reflects the way you take care of yourself and your family. Your cooking, laundry, bathroom, pets and yard can make or break your home’s appeal. You could live in a mansion, apartment or an Airstream trailer. Just remember to clean the litter box. Change the paper in the bottom of the birdcage. Scoop the poop. A cozy condo can be a comfortable, uncluttered cocoon. And never underestimate the power of The Nose. Aromatic sense memories like cookies, flowers and laundry fresh from the dryer, or sewage, mildew and mold – are etched in the olfactory cortex, forever. Make your house the place your children want to live, spend time in and bring their friends.

6. Your Home is a Gallery

Display your child’s art like it’s museum quality – because it is. Frame it. Hang it. Show it. Beautifully. Every finger painting doesn’t have to be stuck on the door of the ‘fridge, under a magnet, but once in a while, your child will create something breathtaking. You will be proud to show their work. Out of all your pricey art and fancy designer stuff, your ChildArt will be the most meaningful and will get the biggest compliments. What it does for your gifted child’s confidence is priceless.

7. In You They Trust

“In Mom We Trust.” Earn their trust by trusting them. Earn their respect by respecting them. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That basic principle of physics is the basic law of parenting. To win your approval, your children will validate your opinion of them – good or bad. Don’t be a snoop. Butt OUT. Respect their privacy; don’t betray their trust. Be grateful when they confide in you. Worry is an empty gesture; an unproductive, ego-driven pastime. Worry, like money and stuff, is not a substitute for Love and Trust. A parent who is constantly worrying about everything is a cliché. Worry erodes a child’s self-worth. Worry diminishes, trust empowers.

8. Your Children Are the Funniest People You’ll Ever Meet

Your kids are hilarious because all kids are hilarious. Laugh with them, not at them. Nobody you will ever meet will be as entertaining as your children are to you. There’s a high probability that people, who aren’t you, will not share your opinion of your children. When your child becomes and Rhodes Scholar or wins a MacArthur Genius Grant, the world will be notified of the fact that your child is a genius. Until then, keep your opinion to yourself.

Nothing is more validating than the kick your child gets out of making you laugh. It’s meaningful because 1. You’re Listening. 2. You’re connecting through laughter 3. You’re giving praise. Keep a journal of their best quips, dialogue and escapades. When he’s 25 years old that journal will mean more than the Atari you got him on his 9th birthday. When your kid can laugh at himself, he will be able to appreciate the absurdity of the world. This isn’t something they’ll learn in school. A sense of humor is the best gift you can give your kids – besides yourself.

9. Your Children Are the Most Fascinating People You’ll Ever Meet

They’re complex, talented and curious – because they’re yours. They are smarter than you. It’s a fact. Every generation out-smarts the one before. Be interested in what they do, what they think and what they say. They are not your mini-me-clones. Your children expand your universe in ways that didn’t exist when you were their age; when t.v. was in Black & White. When phones were rotary and had cords and fast food was a Swanson’s t.v. dinner and we watched “The Jetsons” to see what the future would be like. These are the iMac, iPhone, iPod, iPad, iiiiiiiKids. The few, old fashioned things we’ve mastered are obsolete and quaint to them. Be a good sport. Celebrate their intelligence. They will leave you in the iDust before they’re in double-digits.

10. Your Child is Like a Snowflake

Each child is unique. Even twins, triplets, octuplets. You’ve got to customize your parenting style for each one. You gave them different names for a reason. Acknowledge their individuality. They’re different in a million ways: age, birth order, looks, gender, talent, temperament, IQ, EQ, hobbies, dreams, attention span, favorite color, music, movies, taste buds. One hates tuna, but loves sardines, another wants cheesecake, not carrot cake, but everybody (but me) loves lamb chops. They need different lunch boxes, toys, clothes, and terms of endearment. Make each one feel special. Respect their individuality. It’s a family, not a cult. Speak their language and never, ever forget to say “I love you” no matter how old they are. And they will grow-up, they always do — if you’re lucky, like me.

When I was an infant, my mother leaned over my crib while I was sleeping and held a mirror under my nose to see if I was breathing. If she didn’t detect nasal fog, she’d pinch me until I cried. When I was a toddler we lived in Boulder, Colorado. My mommy liked to dress me up like a mini Mae West – complete with false eyelashes, acrylic nails and lipstick.

My perfect blonde hair was shellacked with enough Aquanet to destroy what was left of the ozone layer. I looked like a cracked-out-midget-drag queen. She’d parade me around in trailer trash baby beauty pageants like a sideshow freak.

When we lived in a beautiful home in Brentwood, I found out that I was adopted. What a relief! I was ecstatic that my rage-aholic, movie star mom wasn’t my birth mother. We weren’t a family – we were a publicity stunt. Mommie Dearest used to storm into my room, in the dead of night, screaming like a banshee. Her face was smothered in a thick mask of cold cream. With her shoulder pads and giant red lips, she was a tranny Kabuki shrew-witch.

“No wire hangers in the closets!” she’d bellow. Then she’d rip my beautiful dresses out of the closet and beat me. I thought she was rehearsing to be in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, but she wasn’t, because it was the 1940s and that play wasn’t written until 1962. Mommie Dearest was always getting her thong in a knot. But I knew I’d get my revenge someday and when I grew-up, I wrote a tell-all book and Faye Dunaway played her in the movie. Take that, Mildred Pierce.

When Hitler invaded Poland the Gestapo rounded us up and shoved us in a train bound for Auschwitz. I was so scared, but at least I was with my brother and my mother (who looked like a young Meryl Streep). My first train trip turned out to be my last. I still can’t believe that my own mother handed me over to the Nazis instead of my brother because he was a brat. I will never, ever, EVER forgive her for making that lousy choice. She could never make up he mind. Father would say, “Sophie, what’ll it be? Spaetzel or sauerkraut?” and she’d say, “Spaetzel… No, sauerkraut! No, spaetzel! Never mind, I’ll have egg salad.” By the end of the war Mother was a bona fide nutbucket, even though she still looked like Meryl Streep with bad caps.

By the time I was a teenager, she was a brand new kind of crazy and was getting her Jesus Freak on – 24/7. She was convinced that I was The Evil Spawn of Satan because I had awesome telekinetic powers. It was cool, except the kids at my high school treated me like I had herpes. Even John Travolta was a douche. And Steven Spielberg’s and Brian DePalma’s future ex-wives were total C. U. Next Tuesdays. Mama was always locking me in my prayer closet – like that’s normal. All Moms lock their daughters in a prayer closet, right? Actually, it was the only time I got a little peace and quiet. My life sucked. When I got my period for the first time in the shower in the girls’ locker room I thought: WTF??? Was I a hemophiliac? I thought maybe it was a stigmata punishment for praying to the Holy Virgin Mother to become an orphan. OM Jesus G. It was like having a brain hemorrhage out of my vagina. And at the prom, when they dumped pig’s blood on me? – I snapped. I’ll never forget what I wrote in my Gratitude Journal that night — nothing.

When we lived in Mexico, we spoke Spanish with subtitles and Mama said, “Tita, the only reason you were born was so you could take care of me for the rest of my life. Now go make like water for chocolate.” I still have no idea what that means. I was not allowed to have a boyfriend, or get married while she was alive. I had to do all the cooking plusbreastfeed my sisters’ baby. That’s not even biologically possible. I was on this Earth to be everybody’s bitch. My food was magic, but so what? I had to wait forever for my mother to die and to finally lose my virginity. I would have preferred to spend my life in the bedroom, not in the kitchen. By the time I got married, my husband was so old, he had a heart attack and died on our wedding night.

I will never forgive her for ruining my Sweet 16. She was drunk, as usual, and danced bare-assed in front of my friends. I’m not kidding! She was giving the boys and girls lap dances. She is a full-blown Narcissist and attention whore and though sometimes I sort of love her, I really hate her. No wonder I do drugs and have my own parking space at rehab.

So, in case you have a Mom who was hung-over the day they handed-out the angel wings – don’t feel bad. Maybe your mom was never on time to pick you up. Maybe she flirted with your boyfriends. Maybe she called you and your sister “The Slut Sisters of Beverly Hills.” There will always be worse Moms than your mom. There are worse things than your mom telling you that, “You have lousy taste in men.” Or, “Do something about your hair.” Or, “don’t walk like a duck.” Or, “that top makes you look pregnant.” And you tell her, “Mom, I am pregnant and my due date’s next Wednesday.”

Look at the bright side. You could have a Mom who handed you over to the Nazis, or locked you in a prayer closet, or told the authorities that you were stolen by wild dingoes. And who wants a Mom like that? Daughters don’t torture their moms – because that’s a mother’s job. Sons murder their moms – because it’s man’s work. It’s time to celebrate the woman who gave you life and made you the woman you are today. And remember – someday, you’ll be able to write a book about your mom and there’s nothing she can do about it – except give all her jewelry, including your grandma’s diamond bracelet, to the maid.

I’ve taught in the Writers Program at UCLA Extension since 1995 and received “Outstanding Instructor of the Year” award in 2002. I’ve taught writing courses in Half-Hour Situation Comedy, Animation, Humorous Prose and Screenwriting.. I wrote a bi-weekly newspaper column for COPLEY NEWSPAPERS from 1990-1995 and won two AP (Western ... Continue reading →